


Old Friends

by lynndyre



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Friendship, Gen, Hope
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-08
Updated: 2018-02-08
Packaged: 2019-03-15 08:28:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13609479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lynndyre/pseuds/lynndyre
Summary: In Mithlond.  Not yet.





	Old Friends

**Author's Note:**

  * For [redsnake05](https://archiveofourown.org/users/redsnake05/gifts).



The ship has sailed, but Rivendell's escort party remains in Mithlond's southern port. The year is 2510 of the Third Age, and Imladris has lost its lady.

From Cirdan's home, Elrond watches the sky. The window of his guest chamber faces the north, he cannot see the bay, though the smell of the ocean is constant, redolent with memory. It twists in his chest, in his stomach, until he misses not just his wife but his brother, his parents, all sailed and flown away on such breeze. 

It is a foolish feeling to indulge. It were well if he dressed for the day, if he might consult with allies before leaving the city, if he might speak with his host, or his sons. When he moves it is no further than the low couch, blanket and robes pulled around him. He watches the sky outside, but he cannot stir himself to be beneath it. 

His hand, where Vilya dwells, unwilling to be set aside, feels distant from his body, and produces the strange sensation that it is both lighter and heavier than his unadorned hand. Vilya feels almost more alive than Elrond does, in the wake of striving and failure.

It is past the height of the sun when Cirdan comes. He is dressed for his work, in loose linen and broadcloth, the sleeves rolled back to bare forearms knotted with age and sea and shipbuilding. The work he has undertaken since the first sailing.

"How do you bear it? To remain."

Cirdan is quiet, his beard concealing the set of his mouth. Elrond looks back towards the sky. The gulls are screaming.

He is torn with Celebrian, for leaving him; even when he knows the exact quantity of her hurts, the damage both physical and other, knows full well she has made the choice she needed to make- but still it wounds him. And he is glad of the peace, the welcome, the surcease of sorrow that awaits her, glad from the depth of his heart. But looking ahead, to all that he still must do, must strive for, alone- the desire to follow her is a living thing, twisting within him.

Cirdan brushes the coverlet back to sit beside him, and folds him into those corded arms. The heat in Elrond's eyes spills over.

Cirdan holds him without judgment. 

There is no answer to Elrond's question. They go on because they must, because their tasks are not yet complete. Cirdan smooths his hand over Elrond's unbrushed hair, already beginning to tangle as a full-elf's would not. Elrond's scent is familiar, in his hair, in the smell of his tired body, and Cirdan's arms remember the shape of his once-apprentice, sailing now among the stars. Elrond's frame has been trained to different strengths, but strong nonetheless, and his spirit surges with a different, steadier energy.

He will reach the end of his task. 

Cirdan knows it, as he knows his own is yet incomplete, as he knew to whom the ring of fire must be given in keeping, as he knows when a ship is sound and ready to sail.

Elrond's hand grips Cirdan's, offering touch - comfort - even as he takes it. Vilya's song curls up around them, seeming to deepen the blue of the sky. The ocean breeze carries the scent of something far away, somewhere green, and safe.

The gulls have retreated, and the calling voices outside are Elrond's sons. 

They part with the dignity of long familiarity, Cirdan stroking Elrond's hair once more before rising. He will go down to meet them. Elrond will join them soon.

They will go on. They will succeed.

And then they will go home.


End file.
